by Jane Heller
We arrived at the beach and were not, to my surprise, the only ones there. There were a handful of people walking along the sand, picking up an occasional shell, tossing crumbs at hungry seagulls and reveling in the fresh sea air.
“Shall we?” said Cullie as he handed me a ski jacket, hat, and mittens.
I braced myself for a blast of cold air, but when I followed Cullie down to the water’s edge, I found the temperature curiously moderate.
Cullie reached for my hand and then patted it as we strolled along the shore. I was so grateful for the gesture that tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn’t accustomed to such tenderness. But then this was a man who liked to hug and be hugged. Why had I trivialized that display of affection the night before? Probably because my two husbands had never hugged me; their idea of showing affection was to buy me things.
“Look! Mergansers,” Cullie said excitedly, pointing toward the water.
I had no idea what he was talking about. I had been to summer camp and participated in the occasional nature walk and canoe trip, but was not exactly Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. “What’s a merganser?” I asked Cullie.
“A type of duck. Look at their heads.” Cullie released my hand and pointed to the ducks paddling peacefully in the water. “See how their heads have a fan-like crown or crest?” I nodded. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they?”
“They’re fascinating, regal almost,” I said, meaning it. Nobody had ever introduced me to a merganser before.
“And look over there! I see some mallards and some surf scoters!”
“What on earth is a surf scoter?” I asked, feeling like I was watching an episode of “Wild Kingdom.”
“Another species of duck. Can you see their heads? The top is black and the sides are white.”
I followed Cullie’s line of vision. What fun, I thought. I’d lived near Connecticut beaches all my life and nobody had ever shown me their beauty—their true and natural beauty. All I’d been told was that beachfront was prime property for development and that development meant big money.
Cullie took my hand again and led me down the seemingly endless stretch of curving coastline. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so safe and warm, despite the winter cold. Mostly we’d walk in silence, listening only to the gentle waves, the cries of the seagulls and the quiet of the February morning. Occasionally, we’d stop dead in our tracks, face each other, and smile, for no reason other than because we couldn’t help it.
At one point, Cullie turned me toward him and cupped my chin in his two hands. “This is nice,” he said softly, then rested his lips on mine.
Automatically, without even a trace of my usual conflicts, I threw my arms around Cullie’s neck and kissed him back, melting into him.
“Our noses are cold,” he laughed. “How about letting me take you home.”
“Home?” I must have looked alarmed. Was Cullie pulling back? Changing his mind? Would we have to play our silly games again?
“To Marlowe,” he said, then put his arm around me and watched the relief spread across my face. “You’re a big surprise, do you know that? I never expected this to happen.”
I had no intention of spoiling the moment by asking Cullie what “this” meant. I kept silent. I felt happy. I wanted “this” never to end.
He led me back down the beach, to the parking lot, and into his Jeep. We did not speak during the five-minute drive to the marina. We stole glances at each other, just to make sure the day was not a hallucination. When we reached the marina, we climbed aboard Marlowe, hurried into the main cabin, and threw our jackets onto the settee.
“You probably want to have brunch now,” I said, remembering the night before, when Cullie had killed our clinch by suggesting we have dessert.
“Food can wait,” he said. “All I’d really like to do is kiss you.”
He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me, first gently, then more ardently, his tongue darting in and around my mouth. Before I knew it, we were lying on top of each other on the settee, breathing heavily, kissing feverishly. I longed to feel his touch on my naked body, but I wasn’t raised to initiate sex. He’d have to do it. Fortunately, he did.
He reached under my sweater and massaged my breasts. I moaned. I moaned? Did you hear that, Sandy? I moaned!
“Let’s go in there,” Cullie whispered, leading me into the V-berth at the bow of the boat. At that point I would have followed him into the Long Island Sound.
We undressed and admired each other’s naked bodies. “You’re beautiful,” Cullie said, gazing at me through the sunlight filtering through the cabin’s porthole.
“You’re beautiful,” I told him. And he was. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat but rippled with muscle. His chest was covered in golden blond hair, flecked with gray. His hips were narrow, his butt high and tight. And then there was his penis. My experience was limited, granted, but I had never seen an organ so rod-straight, so shiny and pink, so…beckoning. I slid my hand over it. I couldn’t help myself. I, who usually avoided genital contact like a trip to the periodontist.
“That feels so good,” Cullie moaned. I continued to stroke him as we stood in front of the berth. “Let’s lie down. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a good idea,” I said softly, refusing to let go of him. He was so smooth in my hand, like a piece of sculpture, so appealing I wanted to envelop him with my mouth. My mouth? Suddenly, I was overcome by an urge I’d never experienced in my thirty-nine years of life…a burning desire that I never would have attributed to myself—the desire to give a man head!
I moved down his body with my lips, practically inhaling him as I went, marveling at my lack of inhibition. Could this woman who was now performing fellatio on a man she barely knew be Alison Waxman Koff, the same woman who’d rather scrub her kitchen floor than give a guy a blow job? Could this woman who was parading around naked on a sailboat in the middle of February be the same woman who was so modest she slept in her bra and panties, even when she was by herself? Yes, she was I, and I was having the time of my life.
“Oh, God. That feels incredible, but don’t let me come, Sonny. I want to be inside you.”
I practically had to tear my mouth away.
“Now,” he said, laying me gently on my back. “Now.”
By noon, I had registered seven orgasms on the Richter scale; Cullie had registered two.
“Do you want brunch?” Cullie asked as we rocked back and forth in the berth, in perfect sync with the gentle rolling of the waves against the boat.
“You mean I get eggs and bacon with the deal? This cruise ship has more activities than the QE2,” I smiled, then entwined my naked leg around Cullie’s and tickled him under his chin.
“I just wanted you to have whatever you needed, right here on the boat,” Cullie said shyly.
“I do,” I said, then threw my arms around him and kissed him.
I whistled to work on Tuesday morning, yes I truly did. After my heavenly weekend on the Marlowe with Cullie, a day at Melanie’s didn’t seem that daunting. Oh, I still allowed myself a few murderous fantasies about her. On my way over to Bluefish Cove, I imagined running her over with my Porsche as she stood helplessly in her driveway. Then I pictured myself spiking her Evian water with ammonia and counting the seconds until the poison took effect. I even visualized inserting one of her little fingers into an electrical socket and watching her Dynell hair stand out like Don King’s. I was profoundly ashamed of myself for indulging in such fantasies, sort of the way I felt when I finished an entire package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, but Melanie seemed to inspire angry, vindictive thoughts.
I arrived at the entrance to Bluefish Cove, waved my pass at the security guard, and drove through the gate to Melanie’s house. When I got there, she was in the kitchen waiting for me with her hands on her tiny hips and her over-painted mouth in a pout. Don’t tell me, let me guess, I said to myself: she found some seagull shit on one of her sliding glass doors and she wants me to lick
it off.
“Good morning, Ms. Moloney,” I said cheerfully, determined not to let the Queen of the Sleaze Bio bring me down.
“There’s a problem,” she said, not bothering to wish me a good morning.
“I apologize in advance,” I smiled.
“No, not with you. With Todd.”
“What’s the problem with Todd?”
“He hasn’t shown up in days. He was supposed to come in this weekend and didn’t. And he didn’t come in yesterday or today.”
“Have you tried to reach him?” I asked. Dumb question, Alison. The woman was an investigative journalist. Did she need her maid to tell her to call the guy?
“Of course I’ve tried to reach him. I keep getting his answering machine.”
“You must be terribly worried about him. He told me you two have been partners for years.”
“Partners? He told you that? That’s very funny,” Melanie scoffed. Her tightly stretched face nearly cracked when she tried to smile. “I wouldn’t call us partners. Todd works for me. And as far as being worried about him, I’m not. He does these little disappearing acts from time to time, whenever he’s in a snit.”
“Did you two have an argument of some kind?” I asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. But that’s not your concern, Alison.” Then why are you talking to me about it? “The reason I brought the subject up is that there’s something you can do for me. It has to do with my book.”
“The Alistair Downs book?” I was all ears.
“That’s right. I wondered if you would help me with it since it appears that Todd has abandoned his responsibilities.”
“Me? You want me to help you with the book?” My dreams were coming true. My luck was finally changing. My life was turning around. I would be rich. I would be famous. I wouldn’t have to declare bankruptcy. I wouldn’t have to clean toilet bowls for a living. “Oh, Ms. Moloney. I’d be honored to help you with the book. As a matter of fact, I have some experience in journalism in that I’ve—”
“No time for that now,” Melanie cut me off. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
I followed her down the hall to her office. I could see it now: Melanie Moloney and Alison Koff writing bestseller after bestseller, earning millions upon millions. Maybe I should change my name back to “Waxman,” I thought. Why keep “Koff” and give Sandy and Soozie an opportunity to ride on my coattails?
When we got to Melanie’s office, she sat me down at her desk and asked me if I was ready. I said I was.
“Now,” she said. “How’s your handwriting?”
“Fine, I guess.” Oh, boy. She wanted me to write a few pages of the book.
“Good. Here’s a piece of paper and a pen. I’ll dictate and you write down everything I say.”
Okay, so I wouldn’t exactly be writing portions of the book. But I’d be contributing in a meaningful way. And I’d be getting the inside scoop on the life and times of old Alistair Downs. I couldn’t wait to call Cullie and tell him.
“Ready, Alison?”
“Yes, Ms. Moloney.”
“Four Smith Corona typewriter ribbons…two bottles of Liquid Paper…one ream of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven Xerox paper…two boxes of three by five index cards…one box of black Flair felt-tip pens…three packages of yellow lined legal pads…one Canon cartridge for the PC-20 copier…six packages of double-A batteries…and four blank sixty-minute audio cassettes. Have you got all that down, Alison?”
The only things that were “down” were my spirits—right down the toilet I’d be cleaning for the rest of my life. “Yes, Ms. Moloney. It’s all right here.” I handed her the shopping list. Was this the kind of task she made Todd perform? No wonder he was in a snit. No wonder he hadn’t shown up for work. I was so disappointed I almost cried.
“What’s the matter, Alison? You look ill.”
“No, Ms. Moloney. It’s just that when you said I’d be helping you with the book, I thought you meant that I…”
“That you what? That you’d be writing it with me? That I’d be sharing the contents of a very confidential manuscript with you? Give us both a break, Alison. You’re my maid.”
“You’ve made that very clear, Ms. Moloney. Will that be all?”
“All for right now. Just resume your usual duties.”
“Yes, Ms. Moloney.” And my usual fantasies about killing you.
I spent the evening on the Marlowe, regaling Cullie with stories about my awful day. He seemed more disappointed about my not getting a look at the Alistair Downs manuscript than I was. But we consoled each other with some good old-fashioned lovemaking, and felt much better by the time he brought me home at about eleven-thirty.
I got up the next morning, hopped into my car, and drove over to Bluefish Cove, arriving at the gatehouse at eight twenty-five. I flashed my pass at the security guard, and he waved and let me through. I made it to Melanie’s service door at eight-thirty on the nose, just the way she always told me to. When I didn’t see her in the window, I rang the back doorbell and waited. And waited. I let another minute or two pass and rang again. Still no answer. Oh, great. Melanie was playing dominatrix again. What was it this time? Was I three and a half seconds early? Or late? Did I ring the bell too meekly or did I press it too hard? I heaved a big sigh and rang again. Still no answer. Maybe Melanie was still asleep. And miss an opportunity to torture me? Never. I rang one more time and waited. Still no answer. Then, feeling a sneeze coming on, I rummaged around in my purse for a tissue, accidentally knocking my elbow against the back door. To my surprise, the door opened.
I pushed it open further and peeked inside the kitchen. The lights were on, but there was no sign of Melanie’s tiny body and no scent either of her morning coffee or her Giorgio perfume. She’s probably on the phone in her office, digging up more dirt on Alistair Downs, I figured.
There was no sign of Todd either, but then maybe they still hadn’t resolved their little tiff.
Maybe, Melanie was actually being thoughtful for a change by leaving the back door open for me instead of making me wait outside in the cold. Gee thanks, Mel.
I went into the maid’s room and changed into my uniform. Then I got my cleaning supplies from the laundry room and headed for the master bedroom, as per my usual routine. When I reached the bedroom door, I stopped dead in my tracks: Melanie’s bed had been made. That’s weird, I said to myself. The woman never—I mean never—made her own bed, even on my days off. She had to have slept somewhere else, I decided, maybe at some guy’s. Good for her. A night of torrid sex would mellow her out.
I spent the next twenty minutes dusting and vacuuming the master bedroom. I was just about to vacuum under the bed when I lifted up the dust ruffle and gasped: there were two boxes hidden under the bed frame, each containing half of the Alistair Downs manuscript! What on earth were they doing under Melanie’s bed? I wondered. Why would she have hidden the manuscript there instead of leaving it in her office? To keep it from me? Not likely. She had to know I’d be vacuuming under the bed—she insisted I vacuum under all the beds and sofas in the house. So why would she leave something so valuable and confidential right where I could find it? Just to test my capacity for obeying the rules of the house? Was this another one of Melanie’s head games—to see if I’d take the bait and read what she’d specifically forbidden me to read?
I’d better let her know I’ve seen the manuscript, I thought suddenly. If I don’t, she’ll accuse me of lying. Or else she’ll accuse me of not vacuuming under the bed. Either way, I’ll catch hell.
I scurried downstairs to the office. The door was closed, so I knocked softly. No answer. I knew Melanie was in there because I could see a light under the door and hear the faint hum of the all-talk radio station she liked. I pressed my ear against the door and listened more closely. She wasn’t on the telephone, that was clear; I would have recognized her unmistakable, little-girl voice. I decided to risk disturbing her and spoke to her through the closed door.
&nb
sp; “Hi, Ms. Moloney. Just wanted you to know I’ve been here since eight-thirty on the dot,” I called out. “And thanks for leaving the back door open for me this morning. I really appreciate it.”
She flat-out ignored me. Figures. She was probably too busy conjuring up new ways to play Torture the Housekeeper.
Screw her, I thought, and went on with my chores. If I hurried, I might be able to clean the rest of the house, collect my money, get out of there at a reasonable hour, and spend the evening with Cullie.
I cleaned the rooms on the second floor, then went downstairs to do the kitchen and dining room. When I checked my watch I saw it was nearly one o’clock and Melanie hadn’t taken her customary lunch break. How was I supposed to clean her office?
I knocked on the office door again, this time with more authority. When Melanie still didn’t answer, it occurred to me to check the garage to see if her car was there. It was. I went back to the office and knocked again. “Ms. Moloney, may I come in?” I called. There was no answer.
The time had come to face the fact that something was going on in Melanie’s house. Something I hoped I wouldn’t be blamed for.
I turned the knob and opened the door slowly. Then I let out a scream to rival Faye Wray’s in King Kong. The office was in complete disarray. Papers had been strewn everywhere. The long table that carried boxes of index cards had been overturned, sending the cards onto the floor in a huge heap. Hardcover books, some of them Melanie’s own bestsellers, had been thrown from the shelves that lined the walls. The once meticulously ordered room looked as if it had been struck either by a tornado or a very angry person.
“Melanie!” I shouted when I finally focused on the fact that she was slumped in her chair, her head resting on her desk, her back to me.
I ran to her yelling, “Melanie. Can you hear me?” Oh, God. She’s dead, I realized instantly when I touched her body and found it stiff as a board. She was wearing the same black-and-mauve velour warm-up suit she’d worn the day we met—the same outfit she often wore when she worked at home. There was a large bump on the back of her head and a bloody gash on her forehead. Her face was whiter than I’d ever seen it, and her hands and wrists were purple.
